by Nicola Tee
“He watched the T.V. in another language, I think it was Russian but do not quote me on that. He had a slight accent when he spoke but again I cannot be sure, as I spent so much time with just his voice it became my norm. I still preferred to sit and watch a show I couldn't understand over staring at four white walls all alone, even if it meant sitting next to him.
“Of course, having the luxury of being in the T.V. room meant at some point he would ask me for something, like a foot massage. I hate feet, and his definitely did not change my opinion on that. The smell the first time I took his socks off, hit me like a tonne of bricks. He would make me rub cream into his feet and every time my fingers went over a cracked, dry, scaly bit of skin I threw up a little in my mouth. I could just about handle it and then he asked me to cut his toenails, as he was too fat and lazy to do it himself. I had to put all my strength into cutting them because they were green and rock solid, so when I did manage to clip them, the clippings flew off in different directions all around the living room. I then had to go around on all fours to find his toenail clippings as he hated mess. I counted to ten in my head, so I knew I had got them all as leaving one behind would have meant the spoon.
“Then, one evening after cutting his nails I did my usual crawling around to pick up the clippings when I suddenly saw a way out of hell. There was this exposed socket tucked behind one of the sofas, I contemplated turning the plug on and sticking my fingers in it in an attempt to electrocute myself to death. I didn’t sleep for days after seeing it as I began to believe that my only way out would be in a body bag. But if I did kill myself I would be letting Lizzie down, so I decided against it even though every time I saw the exposed wires, it was like sending someone on a diet into a cake shop; sheer temptation. Temptation I found increasingly hard to avoid.”
Lizzie
“Sorry, you mentioned someone called Lizzie, who is that?”
“Elizabeth James Smith or, as I called her, Lizzie. She was born in Manchester to her parents Angie and David. Lizzie was an only child, therefore she described herself as ‘spoilt beyond belief’. But when she turned thirteen her life changed forever.”
“How?”
“Lizzie’s dad was the founder of a successful chain of retail stores, but he hit a tough financial patch after the markets took a turn for the worse. He lost everything, which had catastrophic consequences for Angie and Lizzie. Prior to their financial problems, Lizzie was used to getting the finer things in life. For instance, she had five horses, a number of holiday homes at her disposal, and every pair of shoes she had ever wished for. She described her life as going from pure luxury to nothing at what felt like the speed of lightning.”
“What happened to them?” the officer continues.
“It was an hour from when her father told Angie and Lizzie what was happening to the debt collectors turning up at their door. Lizzie was the one who answered the door. No girl should have to stand aside while strangers rummage through her family’s possessions, valuing things and loading items into a van. Sadly, not long after that incident her father drowned himself. Angie found her husband, the only man who had the brain capacity to get them out of the mess they were in lifeless in their bathtub. Lizzie was so angry when she told me what he had done, but I didn’t feel anger, I felt sadness. I have been at rock bottom before, therefore I know how tempting it can be to end it all instead of fighting your way out of the deep dark mental hole you find yourself trapped in."
“Do you know where Angie is now?”
“Well soon after the suicide Angie and Lizzie moved to London. Angie worked three jobs just to keep food on the table. Lizzie told me that she felt like she had lost two parents the day of the suicide, as her mum had no choice but to become a workaholic to keep a roof over their heads, so she never saw her. Lizzie would walk the streets at night, getting into trouble as there was no one enforcing a curfew upon her. And that was when she met Michael, the boy who marginally tamed her wild and rebellious side.”
“So, Lizzie was held captive with you?” asks the detective, brushing over the circumstances of Lizzie’s past and the sadness that comes with her story.
“Yes. But she got it a lot worse than I did. She spent most of her time not being allowed food because she couldn’t follow the rules. I mean, do not get me wrong, I didn’t want to follow the rules, but I had no choice, I needed food. The rules were simple: speak only when spoken to, say please and thank you at all times, never make too much noise and never ever laugh. Laughing was a big no-no in his household. But Lizzie thought bowing down to him would only give him more power, and she was right, it did.”
“What happened to Lizzie?”
“She died,” I snap.
“What?” The detective whispers, having lost his voice through the realisation that this situation has gone from an abduction to a murder investigation. His wide eyes are pushing me for more details, even though it is obvious from the tears forming in mine that I don’t want to talk about it. But I have no choice. I must always answer a question as it is rude to ignore people.
“I saw her one morning lying on her mattress, lifeless. That was one image I did not expect to see through the keyhole between our two rooms. All he did when he found her was shrug, she deserved way more than a shrug, and a self-dug grave in the backyard; she did not even get a headstone. I tied one of my hairbands to a branch and pushed it into the ground for her, and I promised her that one day I would find her body and give her a proper send-off, as I know she would have done the same for me if I did not make it and she did. We had separate rooms in the house, but there was a vent system which we whispered to one another through, and a keyhole between our common wall so we could get a slightly blurry glimpse of one another when we got really lonely.”
“Tell me about Lizzie.”
“Elizabeth was beautiful, she had long glossy blonde hair, piercing green eyes and tanned skin. There was something about the way she looked that mesmerised Mr. Hump. Oh, sorry, Lizzie and I nicknamed the man who did this to us Mr. Hump because he always had the hump about something. I think he fancied Lizzie, I mean she did have long slim legs and a perky bum that most people would do a double take at. Maybe he was especially hard on her because she caught his eye, I don't know.
“One time we were in the kitchen, and Lizzie quickly showed me how to walk like a model when Mr. Hump’s back was turned. For a split second that day we both felt normal, whatever normal is. But it was brought to an abrupt stop when Mr. Hump turned around and saw us. He was so angry he exploded, but it was worth the explosion, as I went to bed that night smiling thanks to Lizzie, and we giggled for hours together through the vent, taking it in turns mocking the way Mr. Hump erupted. He was honestly like a volcano, he got louder and louder, redder and redder till he had a coughing fit, and threw us back into our rooms. I tried to giggle under my breath to not make the situation worse, but Lizzie didn’t care, she was loud and proud with her laughter. As you can imagine he wasn’t best pleased about her mocking him.
“Whenever he put us together it was a recipe for disaster as we couldn’t help but be giggly. I think Mr. Hump secretly liked that we were naughty in each other’s company, as why else would he continue to allow us to associate with one another? Now I know it was all part of his sick game. He wanted us to be naughty, so he could punish us, and then use the fact that we had misbehaved as justification for our punishment.”
“Did he kill her?” Mr. Detective asks. I nod. He instantly looks over my shoulder and copies my nodding gesture in the direction of the blank window behind me, signalling to the people on the other side.
“Yes, he killed her slowly. You see, over time the twinkle in Lizzie’s eyes faded, her jokes became few and far between and her smile became non-existent. When she died, I gave in. I was already hanging over the edge, but her death caused me to fall, crash and burn. I just existed from that point onwards; I did as I was asked, was polite and smiled on cue. The day of her death he made me tidy her room and p
ut her three possessions into a box for keepsakes.”
“Do you remember what the possessions were?”
“Of course. A stunning necklace; it had the letter ‘M’ engraved on it. She had previously told me about Michael. He was her first love, but he and his family moved away because of his dad’s job and I know that broke her heart. She never actually said it broke her heart, but I could tell it did because the way she spoke about him is the same way I used to speak about the man who broke my heart, with a tremble in the voice.
“Lizzie also had a pair of shoes neatly placed in the corner of her room. They were a size seven, as you would expect a nice big size, being she was so tall. They had the cutest pattern of red bows on them. Let’s just say they were her style down to a tee. Lizzie’s last possession was her cardigan, it hadn’t been washed once since she arrived, so to everyone else it will probably stink and make them hurl but to me, it smelt of her. Sweet, pure with a hint of daisy, that was the detergent her mum always used, and Lizzie would sniff into her collar repeatedly to remind herself of home. The truth is, tidying her room nearly finished me off, I cuddled into a ball on the floor whilst holding her cardigan and sobbed till there were no more tears left in me, I was once again alone.”
“Is that all?”
“No wait— before I left her room I lifted up her mattress to lean it against the wall and that was when I found her colouring book. I was shocked she was given one as Mr. Hump never gave me any activities to keep my mind occupied. Anyway, I flicked through the pages for a closer look, and I saw a note written on the back of one of her drawings. She wrote in a blue crayon, which was typical Lizzie as she was obsessed with the colour blue. I ripped out the note and tucked it into my pocket and took the box of her possessions to Mr. Hump. That night I read her note and have read it hundreds of times since. It was addressed to me.”
“Do you remember what the letter said?”
“Yes, it read: ‘Hey Pretty Cakes, I knew you would find this letter because I knew you would stand my mattress up against the wall like you do yours. If you’re reading this then I did not make it and I can’t say I am annoyed about that as being constantly hungry is mentally and physically exhausting. You must not quit, you must fight and keep fighting till the end. You need to use that brilliant mind of yours and get out. I am sorry. Run, darling’. That letter was her final wish; therefore, she is the reason I did not stick my fingers in the socket, did not try to strangle myself with my belt and did not try to get myself shot. She is the reason I am sitting here now.
“So, if I recall, you asked me who Lizzie was, right? I will tell you. She was the most beautiful, smartest, funniest, kindest, most generous soul I have ever met. She walked into my life when I was close to rock bottom, and somehow, she picked me up, made me smile and laugh. God, she was so funny. I loved her like a sister, and I will hold her memory in my heart forever. She saved my life, a real-life hero. That’s who Lizzie was. My hero.”
“I am sure she felt the same about you,” states the detective whilst sniffing up the excess snot in his nose probably produced by my pulling on his heartstrings with my touching tribute to Lizzie. I wish I had told her what she meant to me before she died.
This Morning
“How did you end up in the town centre this morning?” the detective asks, once again changing the line of questioning, this time to prevent himself having a full-blown breakdown, which I can tell will happen if he allows me to continue to talk about Lizzie. He really is a big softie in disguise because of his unintentionally harsh glare, blank expression and deep voice. But for the record, I haven’t forgotten that he lied to me. I will never forget that he lied to me. I am not warming to him; I am simply acknowledging that there are many layers to him.
“Routine, we must have routine. It makes life easier and day-to-day living more fun. Routine gives us guidance and a clear structure. We must have routine, because, remember, an organised house is a happy house’. Mr. Hump made me repeat that phrase every time he said, ‘And what do we do in this house?’ That was my cue to keep saying those words over and over until he clicked his fingers for me to stop. So, as you can imagine, routine was a top priority for Mr. Hump and that was how I ended up in the town centre this morning. You see, he fell victim to his own obsession with having things done the same way every day.”
“Please elaborate.”
“Well, a massive part of our routine was that every morning he would make me brown crustless burnt toast soaked in butter for my breakfast. Whilst I was attempting to digest the hideous pile of yuck in front of me, I would hear Mr. Hump banging around in his garage. He was either trying to make something or attempting to fix something, because he point-blank refused to call anyone in for maintenance and attempted everything himself, but credit where credit is due, he managed to fix all the problems that occurred in the house. Sometimes, I used to pray that the water pump would explode and flood the place, so he would have no choice but to call in a professional. I would have screamed at the top of my lungs if that happened, but it never did.”
“This morning!” the detective pushes trying to get me to headline how I ended up free. But I need to give him the background information of the event otherwise he won’t get it.
“Okay. Okay. There was a garage located to the side of the kitchen; the door to it was always locked unless Mr. Hump was in it, but of course, if that was the case I was locked in my room. You are probably wondering how I know this. Well, I knew his daily movements perfectly, thanks to the thin walls and his ridiculously loud footsteps. I heard him use the toilet four times a day, and he only ever flushed it on the fourth time. I heard him hoover the hallway carpet every other day and I heard him speak on the phone in another language every four or maybe five days. The phone calls were always short, and I know he deliberately only spoke Russian (I think) so I couldn’t understand. His life was painfully regimented.”
“What happened this morning then?” repeats the detective.
“This morning he changed the routine, and I nearly fainted from shock when I realised. For breakfast, I was given crusted toast, with only a sliver of butter, almost like he rushed making it. Something was majorly wrong! He had never changed how he made my breakfast since day one of my being with him, and trust me, I asked for less butter and the crust left on a few times. But, I soon learned not to question how he did things. Therefore, this morning was my now or never moment so I had to take it, and I did. It may seem like a small detail to you, but him making my toast different was massive. It wasn’t like him to make a change, especially if the change suited me better."
“Okay. I understand, so—.”
“So, I concluded that he was either playing mind games with me or he was distracted by something. I knew it was the latter after a second of thinking through the situation, because he would have gotten too much anxiety from changing the mealtime routine, he wouldn’t use breakfast as a way of toying with me. He just wouldn’t be able to cope with that change in his head. I wasn’t going to get another opportunity to exploit his weakened attention, so I slung my toast to the side of me and started screaming out to Mr. Hump. Within seconds he was standing in front of me. It was a bit annoying actually, as this morning was the first time he had made me an actual edible breakfast, but I didn’t have time to eat it, I needed to act fast.
“I am going to be sick. I am going to be sick!” I kept saying those words, getting louder and louder each time I said it. I thought if I kept repeating them, it would cause him to flap. I needed him to flap to further throw him off his game. Mr. Hump hated unexpected changes in the day-to-day running of the house, and my being sick was the perfect unexpected, unaccounted-for event that would cause him to lower his guard. He grabbed me by my left arm and pulled me to my feet. He was that rough that he nearly pulled my arm out of its socket, but I didn’t care as I had a gut feeling on where he was marching me to. And I was right. On any other day he would have thrown me the bucket, but today he didn’t. My hear
t was racing, and my palms were sweating, but I kept focused by repeating ‘Run, darling’, in my mind.”
“Then what happened?”
“He flung open the bathroom door, pushed me into the hand basin, and walked off back down the hall. Another mistake by him was leaving me unattended, he would have never done it if he was in his right mind. He was too much of a control freak to leave me to my own devices. Something was wrong, I mean majorly wrong. Is it bad if I say I really wanted to know what had thrown him so off his game? He might as well have led me out the front door himself, he was that pre-occupied.”
“Can you tell me about the bathroom?”
“Yes. It was a tiny one, tiled in pale pink squares from the floor to the ceiling, making the room feel even more claustrophobic than my own personal prison. I sat on the toilet seat and closed the door slightly with my foot whilst faking sick noises to buy myself a second or two to think. The bathroom window was slightly open but there was no way I could squeeze out of it, even with my bag-of-bones self.”
“What did you do?”
“I ran the hot water and, in an attempt to drown out the sound of the water smashing against the inside of the basin, I made louder puking noises. At that point I was gagging so much I started to actually feel sick. You see, I had to improvise, which was never my forte, the only weapon I could think of was the hot water. I started running the tap to get it as hot as possible and I filled the cup holding Mr. Hump’s toothbrush with it. I could hear his abnormally loud footsteps closing in on me. I took a deep breath and potentially one of my last breaths if he figured out my plan. He swung the door open in a rage, no doubt because I was using the water and that was a luxury I wasn’t entitled to. And then I threw it!